Pahlok
by Black winged wonder
Summary: In a world where the gods meddle freely in mortal affairs, a lot could go wrong. It was only Miraak's luck the prophesied saviour of said world was the embodiment of inept.
1. Chapter 1

A thousand fires painted the skies in deep crimson of pain and suffering. Hills and plains emerged from underneath their snowy graves as tongues of the flames consumed them, leaving naught behind but ash and fleeting embers. Forests shuddered as tall trees fell to their eternal slumber like ancient giants. Flickers of life extinguished with the fading light as they daylight slowly died. Howling winds carried prayers to the heavens, pleas of help to the protectors of the ancestor land, but no answers came that evening, no one there to extend a hand of mercy.

Huge shadows circled the town of Whiterun, a city well known across Tamriel. Traders and vagabonds once flocked there, lured by its bustling economy and convenient location. Instead, deathly silence lingered over the streets that lay abandoned and destroyed. Cosy wooden houses, the great keep of Dragonsreach, burned with ferocity; the inferno consumed everything that stood in its path. A shadow gained form, swooped down from above the smoke. Its dark leathery wings fuelled the fire and roaring laughter froze the hearts of the few remaining survivors. As the last structure fed the hungry blaze, the shade retreated and a rain of stones buried the remnants of the city underneath a thick cloak of dust and debri.

Inside a cold stone palace, warriors gathered underneath determined gaze of their commander. Fearless in face of death, men and women polished their swords and sang songs of Sovngarde. The tune held no joy but somber acceptance and silent cries. Thick walls of the formidable fortress rattled from a roar that spoke of their end, but the soldiers only chanted louder, defiant of the fate that awaited them outside. They charged together as one when the doors crumbled to dust. Arrows whistled and embedded into the skin of a grey beast from legends of old. It spoke but a single word calmly in spite of the assault. The ancient palace of Windhelm had never seen such warmth as the one that escaped from the dragon's gaping maw. No louder than a whisper, it extinguished a dozen flames and started a new one in their stead. Unheard for centuries, _Yol_ rang amidst tortured screams.

A soldier dared a glance to his left where yet another of his brethren fell with a cry of anguish. His eyes widened as brilliant wisps of light left the body, devoured by a winged demon that hovered so close, its glowing red eyes peered right through his soul. The blazing orbs held no sympathy, no hesitation, only eternal hunger. He shouted a promise to avenge his fallen brothers and sisters, and lunged forward, sword aimed at the creature's horned head. With a quick prayer to the divines, he aimed for the jaws with rows of sharp teeth. He did not understand how the beast taunted him, but its ramblings did not matter. Memories of nights spent in the gentle glow of the fire on the shores of the White River flashed before his eyes when the dragon spoke again and everything blurred. An iron sword with Stormcloak insignia clattered to the ground, the body of its wielder following shortly after.

No settlement, big or small, was spared from the continuous onslaught, and the night was no longer discernable from day. The curtain of silence rarely lifted anymore, no voices remained to disturb its heavy cloth. A horde of ancient dragons, resurrected by Alduin, showed no mercy to the inhabitants of Skyrim. A mistake once made they vowed not to repeat, instead crushing everyone in their path. Lucky few who had escaped the devastation, spoke of unseen horrors that spread like wildfire across the northernmost province. Wars and battles paled in comparison of the threat that loomed in the far away land and the population of Tamriel readied itself for the final stand with dread in their hearts.

A lone hooded figure stood atop the Throat of the World, gazing down upon the decrepit ruins of the civilization. Its heart, full of grief and sadness, ached for each light of a soul that the darkness of Alduin's demonic form devoured with no remorse. The ancient prophecies foretold the emergence of the beast – a chance for the world to begin anew. Yet, as mortals lost their lives in the gruesome jaws of the First, the figure shook its head in disappointment. Alduin had shirked his duty and chosen the path that lead to his banishment so long ago once more. Pride and desire for domination had clouded his mind then, and it seemed not much had changed.

The figure began shifting and morphing, no longer resembling a man but a great spectral dragon. Its translucent scales reflected the raging fires that consumed a crumbling monastery underneath, the grey ashes that mixed with flashes of lightning amidst a raging storm, and the traces of snow that blanketed the peak. The dragon roared, voice raw and heart breaking, filled with forgotten screams and prayers of the fallen. The sound travelled across ruins and rivers flowing red, caressed the mantled bodies that scattered the razed cities. The winds stilled and the lands stood frozen in a moment of peace that so many died fighting to see. The world plunged into nothingness.

* * *

Loose pages twirled and danced with unfelt breeze, rising from piles that littered intricately carved floors. Endless columns of nameless tomes reached towards the swirling acid green skies, disappearing from sight. A single floating light illuminated a lone figure that lay slumped over a wooden table. The realm of Apocrypha was unusually quiet, devoid of Seekers that normally scuttled along its narrow corridors in search of obscure texts.

Sleep was something that Miraak had not indulged in for the past four thousand years. His existence reminded him of the very same faceless creatures that roamed the library – doomed to search for knowledge that would sate the craving in his enslaved soul. Yet there he was, groggy and tense, rising from the uncomfortable position he found himself in. A vivid nightmare that plagued his uneasy rest lingered at the front of his mind and he felt his stomach sink at the sheer amount of emotion the strange dream contained. He scowled at the vision of a dragon and its sky-shattering roar and the odd familiarity that nagged at his brain. Miraak could not deny how _mortal_ he felt at that moment after witnessing the ending of the world he left behind centuries ago. Was Hermaeus Mora trying his patience again? It would not be the first time the Demon of Knowledge sent him obscure glimpses of a world that neared its end, yet he failed to recall any that carried such intensity.

A gentle hand rested on his shoulder, and Miraak jumped off the chair, sword in hand and Dragon Aspect shout fully activated. His eyes narrowed at the sight of a robed elder who stared at him with a face that held sadness and a hint of pride.

"Is this truly a way to greet your father?" the man spoke his voice merely above a whisper. Miraak backed away from the stranger, poised to strike at the first sign of provocation.

"How dare you disturb me, old man? My father perished thousands of years ago. So stop lying," he spat avoiding the odd question and gauging his reaction.

"Perhaps, but your dragon soul recognises me for who I am. You need only listen."

Miraak growled, annoyed with the riddles the man kept throwing his way. Even if he had the eternity as Mora's servant, he did not wish to waste his time entertaining some barmy fool. Clenching his jaw, he lunged forward with his sword and launched a ball of fire at the intruder. His blows failed to connect as the man dodged his assault with practiced ease. The hand returned to his shoulder, yet this time his body froze instantly despite his immense struggle. As the touch descended upon his robes, Miraak nearly screamed from the intensity of visions that burned behind his eyes. Every inch of his body felt on fire and his blood seemed to boil and cool simultaneously as Tamriel perished once again. Within him, the soul of his dragon roared as well, tormented by collective pain of everyone that fell to the ruthless devourer of worlds. The hold on his body relaxed and he fell to his knees panting while his heart threatened to burst right out of his chest. Slowly, he raised his head to meet the gaze of the man who looked down upon him calmly. His eyes narrowed beneath the slits of the golden mask that adorned his head. Who was this man? Moreover, why did he hold such power over him?

"Listen."

Against his raging desire to reduce the man to dust, Miraak closed his eyes and called forth his Dragon Soul, allowing it to overtake his conscious. He vaguely sensed longing coming from it and furrowed his eyebrows. The way the soul called to the figure reminded him of the way he sought the touch of his own mother what seemed aeons ago. Was he telling the truth? Gods knew, Miraak wanted to scoff at that notion, but the feelings that welled within him were far too overwhelming to deny. With a grunt, he shoved the soul into the background where it almost _whined_ at the severance. Out of all the Aedra and Daedra, only one was able to entice such a strong reaction.

"_Bormahu_… I will indulge you, for now, but you owe me some answers," he finally ground out, humiliated at being put into such a grovelling position.

"I believe you have seen through my eyes, son, you might have an idea why I'm here."

"Enough with the riddles! What do you want from me?"

"I want your help. Your assistance to prevent the very events you have witnessed," the elder said mysteriously and had the gall to giggle at the groan that escaped Miraak's lips. His features became serious again and he continued. "What you have seen has both happened and not, at the same time. However, there is someone with the power to prevent this…"

"And why do I care? I think you got yourself the wrong person."

"Quite the opposite," the elder allowed a small smile to tug at his lips. "The young one needs guidance, and though the ones clad in grey will set her on the path, she needs someone to help her reach her full potential."

Hearing the words, Miraak silently got up from kneeling and sat back down on the chair. He fought the urge to bash his head forcefully against the rotting table once more. If he understood the ramblings of the lunatic who claimed to be the Dragon God of Time correctly, there was another with a Dragon's soul. _Oh, Hermaeus Mora is going to love this_, he mused bitterly. An idea formed in his mind and he turned to face the intruder with a grin behind his mask.

"Say I agreed to your stupid plan, what of my current master? He will not let me to simply leave Apocrypha and return to Tamriel."

"Oh, I'm sure old Hermaeus can be persuaded. Let me worry about such trivialities," the elder said nonchalantly, fixing a knowing gaze on Miraak's golden mask, as if knowing the smile he wore had been wiped off successfully. "It pains me to say this, but I'm afraid you haven't got much of a choice, son," Akatosh continued, looking somewhat remorseful. Miraak scoffed at the expression.

"Very well, it's either one master or another. What do I get in return?"

"Aside from freedom you desired for thousands of years?" the man quirked an eyebrow in a move that betrayed the true age of his form. Miraak scoffed again and crossed his arms on his chest. "A chance to increase your powers, begin your life anew, free of Dragon reign," the elder relented after a short pause.

The gears of Miraak's brain cranked to full power as he weighed the options he had. He could either remain trapped in Apocrypha under Mora's watchful eye… well, many eyes, or return to the realm of the living and carve his own legacy. The choice may have been obvious to anyone else, but he had been in servitude of a Daedric Lord long enough to know that freedom was not something given easily. Yet, he could not deny his desire to walk among the living once again, to answer the call of the skies and allow the _Dov_ to spreads its proverbial wings.

"Fine," he growled in defeat.

"I knew you would come around. I do not think you realise how important your help is. It will be worth your while," the elder clapped his hands as the lingering sadness faded away and relief washed over his features. "Do not contain your Dragon, son. Let it taste the freedom. I shall allow you."

With the final riddle and another groan from Miraak, the elder vanished. The Dragon Priest removed his mask in frustration and threw it at the spot that held the insufferable old coot just a moment ago. His forehead felt clammy at the exertion from the ordeal it went through, and he let it rest against the uneven surface of the table. He strongly doubted Hermaeus Mora would part with his servant happily, and if years spent in the library of forbidden knowledge taught him anything, he was a fickle master. It was true - he only had himself to blame for the mess that became of his life. He had plenty of time for regrets, yet time itself had soon lost significance. Now, he had to admit the curiosity he felt at the effect it had on the mortal realm. Moreover, he could not deny the chance to meet another like him. No books in Apocrypha spoke of two _Dovahkiin_ existing at the same time. _It might be just enough to peak Mora's curiosity_, he chuckled darkly at the thought. He would trust the Prince of Knowledge give up his prized possession for the opportunity to study the effects of such an unusual event.

* * *

He blinked slowly. The light irritated his eyes after years of living in the hazy darkness within Apocrypha. Cold chill invaded his bones as northern winds battered his body, the robes he wore offering little protection from the elements. His muscles were tense and sore as he carefully pushed himself off stone floor. Miraak looked around the decrepit ruins of his old temple and frowned. The place reeked of Hermaeus Mora's influence and he curled his lip in distaste. Arches and spires, once his pride, now made his stomach churn. Only pillars of books were missing, and the temple would fit straight into Apocrypha. Wooden supports surrounded the structure and Miraak noted several dozen people scattered across the perimeter. He inhaled sharply, allowing the fresh air to fill his lungs as he scrutinised the surroundings with disgust.

"_Nahlaas_, I am… alive," he whispered to himself softly.

Years ago, he finally began putting his plans of returning to Tamriel into motion, driven by his hate for Mora and desire to be free from his control. In his mind, the process was simple and straightforward. He had imagined the temple restored to its former glory, an army under his control, and power. Miraak harboured dreams of reclaiming his short-lived title as the ruler of Solstheim, spreading his influence and conquering the island along with the rest of Skyrim. Faded from the memory, he had vowed to force them to remember. Yet, as his solid feet touched the lands of the mortal realm again, he started having second thoughts.

While in Apocrypha, Miraak used Hermaeus Mora's power to garner followers. It began with a few strays flocking to his vague promises of glory and slowly, the group grew larger. Some willingly adopted the title of cultists, but the rest of the people of Solstheim were wary and distrustful, unwilling to acknowledge someone they could not see. Miraak chuckled darkly as he recalled the fit of rage that consumed him, all because a few lowly commoners dismissed his might as a potential ruler and refused to follow his lead. The decision to bend their wills was, he admitted, a low blow even for him. Miraak often wondered how many of his decisions were influenced by Hermaeus Mora. The ancient Nords worshipped Dragons out of fear and awe, but did so on their own accord. No trickery or magic, only their immense power, drew the people to their temples to kneel beneath them as faithful servants.

Miraak looked at his thralls with detachment and listened to the mumbled mantra that they recited obediently. '_Here in his shrine that they have forgotten…' _He could not feel pride at this accomplishment. They may have enacted his will, but ultimately, the slaves worked under Mora's power. '_Far from ourselves, he grows ever near us…'_ The Dragon Priest observed a green glow that encased a tall monument in the centre of the temple. If he recalled correctly, this was one of those stones dedicated to the All-Maker – a god to the people of Skaal. He forced his eyes shut and tuned in to the hum of tainted magic that radiated off the structure, felt Mora's tendrils reach out and steal away the minds of men and Mer of the island. '_Our eyes once were blinded, now through him do we see…' _

He cringed at the droning voices and approached the corrupted monolith with hesitation. Drawing a deep breath, Miraak rested his hand on its surface and concentrated. He felt the dragon soul within roar with power as his fingers burned from unseen fire that ignored the thick leather gloves. He fought the inky blackness that threatened to consume him, but he refused to back down. His body connected with the floor when a shockwave spread from the point his hand touched the structure. The sky flared acid green for a moment and a gust of wind shook the surroundings in its wake. '_And when the world remembers, that world will cease to be…'_

It felt strange to hurt. For the second time that day, his joints and muscles protested at his actions. He peered through the slits in his mask at the aurorae that floated amidst the stars in the night sky. The wind had stilled but the coldness grew harsher and Miraak shuddered involuntarily. Wherever his fate may lead him, the first stop would certainly be the nearest clothing vendor. To think that he, Miraak, the First Dragonborn, Nord, a great Dragon Priest, could fall to mere winter chill ruffled his pride. Mighty conquest of Skyrim be damned, he had needs that required addressing first. With a groan, he once again rose from his position.

The temple blended in with the darkness and eerie silence hung around the building. Miraak noted the absence of the voices and the lack of, well, anything. _They must have fled_, he mused and began climbing the steps rising towards the edge. The inner circle was devoid of life with only discarded tools scattered next to the wooden structures. He was used to ambient noises that reached him even in Apocrypha, fleeting thoughts of those under his control. He found the quiet bizarre and, he would never admit it, discomforting.

Climbing the grand stone stairs down, Miraak strained his eyes at a large amount of footsteps in the snow. He followed the trail until his vision rested on a shape that lay on the ground. Sprawled awkwardly at the bottom of the steps was a body, he recognised to be one of his cultists by the pale bone mask that rested upon the face. He gingerly approached the figure and saw a pickaxe embedded in its chest with a dark stain spreading from the wound through the robes. Miraak clicked his tongue and briefly wondered if the fleeing workers had decided to overthrow their supposed captors. If that was indeed the case, he was not surprised - he too had dreamed of a similar fate for his Master. He had envisioned his enchanted blade thrust into the all-seeing eye that followed his every movement and watch black ink pour out of the wound with satisfaction. However, Miraak was not a fool – Daedra were immortal and if he chose to go along with such a silly plan, the punishment would have been eternal. He shook the annoying thoughts away; it would do him no good to dwell upon things from distant past.

A short distance from the first corpse, Miraak hummed at the sight of remnants of a battle. Blood soaked the once white snow and bodies lay strewn about, some wielding weapons, while others carried tools that bore crimson marks. Amidst the dead, he spotted two more of his cultists. '_Pathetic_.' He held no pity for the slain. Had they the strength he expected of his followers, they would still be alive. No, their passing was but a drop of ink on the page of his life. The victors wrote the books of their history, and Miraak was sure there would soon be plenty, telling grand tales of the day the residents of Solstheim freed themselves from control of an ancient unseen evil. Such trivialities did not affect him – he knew the time would come where the world sang praises of his rule, and he'd be damned if he did not shove those texts straight into Mora's eye.

* * *

The first rays of sunshine caressed snowy mountain peaks and light filtered through the gaps of delicately carved stone veins. He had to admit, the amount of work poured into rebuilding the temple was astounding and he was almost tempted to continue, restore his rule at the site of his demise. The skeletons of dragons he destroyed served as proof of his power and deterred any who were deluded enough to challenge him. A part of him wished to remain here and mock Vahlok's memory with his presence. Yet, Mora's hold on the island was too strong and he did not wish to tempt fate more than he had already. He sensed the dark tendrils of the Daedric Prince in the very fabric of the land, heard the rustle of pages with every step he took. No, the threat was too great and he could not afford to make mistakes.

Embers cast a faint orange glow, illuminating heavy stone arches and a skeleton of a dragon that hung from the tall ceiling. Miraak's steps echoed in the huge cavern, buried deep underneath the soil and rock of the island. He navigated the bowels of the temple with familiarity and was pleased his ancient army still served their master. They were no longer men and women but walking corpses whose eyes glowed with soul magic. The Draugr recognised him and kneeled as he made his way through the ruins. It pained him to see the heart of the keep crumbled and abandoned, but he had no time to waste reminiscing about its former glory. He strode purposely, ignoring the whispers of the dead and forgotten, bleak visions of his followers roaming the halls, for beyond the grandeur and prestige, a taint lingered. Hidden doors and dead ends kept it locked away from the world for centuries, yet it still sang to him.

As the light dimmed, the surroundings morphed gradually. The sturdy supports thinned and Miraak soon bowed his head to avoid hitting the ceiling that descended lower and lower. He inhaled the familiar scents of rotting leather and musty pages that increased the closer he got to his target. Down a winding staircase, past jaw-like fire pits, he had not been to this particular part of the temple long before his entrapment. The small room reminded him painfully of Apocrypha, yet he was relieved to find it exactly how he left it. Upon a pedestal, the Black Book taunted him, lured him with secrets it contained. Miraak did not fear many things, yet he felt his Dragon soul shudder with a primal urge to flee, to get away from the cursed object that felt so _wrong_. He breathed deeply in an attempt to calm down. The damned artefact that had started him on the path of self-destruction rested easily in his hands. It was his burden to carry. He needed to ensure no one answered its call, succumbed to the promise of forbidden knowledge. He knew there were other Black Books within Solstheim, but only this one lead to the Summit of Apocrypha, the place he called home for centuries. Miraak vowed that whoever decided to visit old Herma-Mora would have to pry the tome from his cold lifeless hands.

A sigh escaped his chapped lips as he finally re-emerged from underground. He had underestimated the true scale of his temple – it had been far too long since he last had a chance to wander its dim dusty corridors. The day was in full motion and rare warmth graced his features underneath the mask.

"Did you think you could escape me so easily, Miraak?"

Miraak froze at the voice that had been his sole companion for centuries. When he was young and naïve, the slow drawl carried a promise of power and knowledge at his disposal, a chance to discover the true potential of being a Dragonborn. He clenched his teeth and met the dozen orbs that peered at him unblinkingly.

"My fate took an unexpected turn, as I'm sure you know," he replied steadily. There was no use provoking his Master. Whatever deal he had struck with Akatosh could be easily broken, of that, he had no doubt.

"Perhaps, but you still remain my servant, my champion," Hermaeus Mora purred and Miraak cringed inwardly. "How curious you chose to seek the book that brought you to me. Allow me to, ah, _lessen_ its burden on you."

Miraak screamed. The Black Book he held in his hands smouldered and fine ashes trickled between his fingers. The pain was unbearable and he found himself kneeling while the Daedric Prince laughed cruelly at his agony. He fell to the floor clutching his shoulder as the Dragon soul roared miserably in his mind. He could feel the skin underneath the scale-shaped plates of his robes twist and burn as blood flowed down the length of his arm.

"What-what have you done?" he ground out when the pain lessened somewhat.

"Exactly what I said I would... When did you become so ungrateful of my gifts? No matter... You will return to me, Miraak. I know you cannot silence the call of Apocrypha. Until you do, I leave you with a reminder of who your true master is," Hermaeus Mora said, shifting between sounding pleased and angry, but Miraak was too preoccupied with trying to stop the bleeding with a healing spell to notice. He had learned to ignore the many moods of Mora, a feat that had cost him dearly a few times.

"Do not linger, champion, go chase your fate. I will await you and your, ah, _companion_. I shall watch you with great interest, Miraak... Enjoy the freedom you craved so dearly, but remember… you are mine."

This caught Miraak's attention. Hermaeus Mora enjoyed manipulating deals he struck with mortals to his favour, a trait he shared with the other Daedric Princes. He had seen plenty of fools loose themselves in the endless library, consumed by their thirst for knowledge. His own pact was sure proof of how cunning the keeper of secrets could be, especially if the subject had drawn his interest. Was it possible that Akatosh, the Chief Deity, ended up tricked also? He needed to find out what their deal entailed, and what it meant for his own survival. Worse yet, the Demon of Knowledge mentioned the second Dragonborn... _Great, another helpless fly caught in the web_, he thought scathingly. He watched absently as Mora's tentacles retreated into the portal and disappeared entirely. A scream tore through his lips again as the wound flared up in a new wave of pain and laughter echoed deep inside his head. For once, Miraak was happy to allow his consciousness to slip away, if only to escape the torture.


	2. Chapter 2

_Rokashin_, this place was nothing but damn trouble. Even now, sat on a cart, Eletthyr cursed silently. He regarded the other Dunmer that accompanied him on the journey. He vaguely recognised some of them, having bumped shoulders at some point during his extended stay in the Grey Quarter. They sat awkwardly, each struggling to find something to look at, anything but their companions. The dark elves of Windhelm were a particularly miserable bunch, yet he knew he couldn't blame them, not really. Whenever something went wrong in Skyrim, it set off a chain reaction. Secretly, he compared it to the eruption of the Red Mountain. One moment, a slight tremor underneath the feet, the next, fire rained from the skies. Sure, perhaps that was a little extreme. No sooner than he heard whispers of a murderer on the loose, the entirety of Windhelm shook by subsequent deaths of Jarl Balgruuf the Greater of Whiterun and his family. Eletthyr resisted the urge to groan as the cart went over another bump on the road.

The following days since those events have been relatively quiet. The Nords of Windhelm somehow found ways to blame his fellow Dunmer for all the misfortunes that befell the province, and he had used his fist to silence the worst offenders more than once. Every little misdemeanour mysteriously traced back to the Grey Quarter, and the guards made it their mission to breathe down the necks of any foolish enough to step foot outside. The tensions ran high, but the Mer did not possess a chance to fight back. Anyone daring to voice their opinions were silenced quickly and disappeared without a trace. Eletthyr clutched a crumpled piece of parchment in his hand. The offer contained within could either be a chance of a new life or a death sentence. Either way, he did not care.

The rusted braziers cast a faint glow on the ashen features of men and women that lined up obediently in the dead of the night. Despite the late hour, the outskirts of the city were wide-awake - dozens of torches illuminated the crumbling walls, hushed conversations and neighs of horses disturbed the silence. Eletthyr craned his neck and caught sight of guards surrounding a smaller figure that held a book and scribbled furiously. He had no patience for this, the queue moved far too slowly and he longed to down an entire cask of mead by himself in a dark corner of a warm inn. Did this place have an inn? He snorted at his own question – no Nord settlement was complete without even a smallest tavern. Either way, the amount of Dunmer that shuffled around anxiously guaranteed a new Cornerclub would appear sooner than later. Preferably, underneath the skies in the middle of the town, just to spite its stubborn smelly residents.

"Next!"

_So loud for someone so easy to crush_, Eletthyr grinned and strode forward, aware of the attention he was receiving from the guards.

"Name, age, location, and make it quick," the small man rattled off, not lifting his head from the parchment.

"Eletthyr Telaloth of the Grey Quarter, none of your business, Nord," Eletthyr drawled and allowed a smirk at seeing the other's hand still. He heard the guards unsheathe their swords but refused to look at them. He noticed the man signal for the brutes to stop with a wave and was proud to have enticed a reaction.

"Well, well, troublesome one, are you?" he sneered and looked Eletthyr up and down. His eyes paused briefly on the sword strapped to the hip but he did not comment.

Eletthyr lifted an eyebrow in challenge and crossed his arms. A pair of guards descended down from the city gate, clearly eager to find out why there was a holdup. They clutched their swords, ready for a potential confrontation. The elder smiled easily and wrote something down before returning his gaze to Eletthyr. A woman dressed in priestess robes shoved a bundle into his arms and moved away as quickly as she had approached. Someone behind him whispered and a few impatient shouts rose further down the line.

"You'll fit right in, Mer. Welcome to Whiterun. Next!"

He shook off the arms that attempted to restrain him and followed the irritable guards without hesitation. He sent a venomous look at the small man, who was writing on his sheet of parchment again, unfazed. Eletthyr's nose scrunched at the overwhelming scent of leather and sweat that surrounded his silent companions. Why did they have to stink? He hoped that wherever they led him at least had a bath.

* * *

Shovelling horse crap was not how Eletthyr had imagined his new life to start. He thrust the tool into the soil and wiped the sweat off his forehead. He briefly wondered if his initial outburst was unwarranted, but he refused to grant the onlookers the satisfaction to see him grovel and beg for different work. Eletthyr clenched his teeth at the memory from weeks ago. The guards were more than happy to push him around, knowing he was walking on thin ice within the first hour of his arrival at Whiterun. Tongue bitten hard enough to bleed, he kept his head high despite their treatment.

The sun scorched his back, forcing Eletthyr to remove his soaked tunic and brush damp black hair off his forehead. The sweat glistened on his body and he was irritated to note the smell that started to well up in his nostrils. _Still better than the Nords_, he thought and made his way towards the river. As the cold water washed away the stench, Eletthyr allowed himself to relax and observe the organised chaos. Carts with quarried stone were pulling in continuously and workers piled the materials together around the perimeter.

He saw roughly drawn lines that marked the scope of the expansion. Eletthyr wondered what had brought the need for such drastic changes. Not only were the Nords smelly, they feared changing more than they did those Dragons from their legends. Stubborn and rooted in their old ways, the people worked tirelessly against their nature. As much as he disliked the natives of Skyrim, he held begrudging respect for the effort they were putting in. Within a few short weeks, the camp he initially came across transformed into a foundation for stone houses, complete with roughly cut boulders, waiting to form new streets.

Satisfied that the smell was gone, Eletthyr got out of the rapid stream and trudged back towards the stables, leaving behind wet footprints. It was hard and unforgiving work, but he had a degree of freedom. After the initial ruckus, the guards kept a close eye on him but did not make a move. His watchers left him alone while he worked, and he had even earned his own tent by the end of the first week. Humiliating and gruesome as it may have been, Eletthyr took pride in what he did. Besides, the animals could not look after themselves.

The monotony of his movements allowed him to keep his ears perked for rumours, of which there were plenty among the other workers. He found whom to avoid and who might assist him, heard a choice of unbelievable stories, and even discovered exciting ways to cuss someone without them knowing. Eletthyr had even managed to make a couple of friends – Karl, an aged Nord miner who had arrived from Dawnstar and Garvey, a sneaky Breton from Markarth. It was not his intention to mingle and form relationships, but the pair was rather _insistent_ in their approach. According to them, alliances were important and they refused to allow Eletthyr to stand out like a sore thumb. He scoffed at the notion but agreed regardless, their words held some truth and it was always good to have back up. _Just in case._

* * *

Eletthyr looked up morosely from his unfinished tankard of mead. Karl and Garvey decided that there was no better way to end a long day of work than getting blackout drunk at the Bannered Mare. He tried to protest, unwilling to spend his evening surrounded by loud, smelly Nords. He was initially surprised the workers could wander freely within the inner walls of Whiterun. Sure, they were paid and looked after just like regular citizens, but he refused to believe it would continue after the works were complete. Plenty of Jarls enlisted help from neighbouring holds but sent everyone back once it was no longer required. Nobody wished for added responsibility on their shoulders in a form of simple workers.

A large form blocked the warmth coming off the fire pit, and Eletthyr scowled. While Karl and Garvey dragged him here, he insisted they took the most secluded table they could find. It was impossible to escape the drunken ramblings and laughter of the patrons, but at least he was certain they would not be bothered. However, it seemed that his luck was short-lived.

Eletthyr regarded the man before him. Another Nord, yet he easily towered over the others by about a foot, with a mop of pale hair that fell carelessly below the shoulders and a single loose braid hanging next to a rough mask that covered half of his face. He raised an eyebrow in challenge. _Great, this one's mother must have been a troll_, he thought and curled his lip in distaste. Garvey quickly looked between the two men, sensing the beginning of a confrontation. Before he could interrupt, Eletthyr growled.

"Move, Nord," he said and took a long sip from his tankard, not looking away. He sensed his companions shift in their seats but paid it no mind. If he had to be here, he was going to enjoy it.

"Such disrespect, Mer. I heard you were going to be trouble," the half-troll replied calmly but the visible features betrayed a hint of amusement.

Eletthyr's irritation was growing by the minute. He was aware that some guard captains and members of the Jarl's court frequented the inn, but a crowd of people normally surrounded the few he had seen. Whoever this was had approached them without anyone noticing, so he must have not been that important.

"Oh, pardon me, _High King_," he retorted and bowed his head mockingly. The evening was ruined. Garvey's hand rested on his forearm in warning, but he'd be damned if he didn't let his displeasure be known. "You're the one intruding here, sera."

"You flatter me. I was merely wondering where the smell of shit was coming from, and here I am."

Red eyes flashing in anger, Eletthyr jumped off the bench and roughly shoved the laughing Nord. The man stumbled backwards but quickly regained his footing. Eletthyr gasped as a hand closed around his throat and effortlessly lifted him up. _Definitely half-troll, _he thought bitterly while trying to get free. He vaguely heard his companions attempt to placate the huge man. His vision started getting blurry at the lack of air and his limbs were beginning to slack. Just before his consciousness could slip away, the hold on his throat relaxed, and he connected with the wooden floor underneath. Under the scrutinising stare of the Nord, Eletthyr got back up on his feet, his breaths shallow and laboured. Wasting no time, he swung his fist and was pleased when the bones of the man's nose crunched and shifted at the impact. Someone screamed for the guards at the other side of the inn, but Eletthyr could only grin stupidly at a trickle of blood that emerged from the nostrils. _I could call myself Eletthyr the Troll Slayer,_ he thought while watching the guards run inside and surround his table. A few nights spent in jail were a small price to pay. The chance to wipe a grin off a stinky Nord's face left him giddy and adrenaline flowed through his veins. He did not struggle when the guards dragged him away, but noted irritably the blonde idiot follow behind them towards Dragonsreach.

* * *

Storm stretched underneath the plentiful furs that adorned the sturdy wooden frame of her bed. Tongues of the morning chill licked mercilessly at whatever exposed skin they could find, and she shuffled deeper into the warmth. The world may well be crumbling outside; Storm was far too comfortable to make a move. Being up so early went against her nature, and not for the first time she wondered if she could somehow darken the treacherous sun. Light peered through the window and Storm groaned loudly in complaint at the brightness that reached even under her eyelids. With a final cry of protest, she opened her blue eyes and blinked rapidly as the surroundings came into focus. She never understood how the majority of Skyrim's population managed to rise with the dawn, the very idea made her yawn.

The day had only started, but in her mind it was going horribly already – she had received summons from Jarl Siddgeir, demanding her appearance '_at her earliest convenience'_. Storm's eyes had never rolled more than when she read the damned letter. Being the Thane of Falkreath had its advantages, sure, but the constant nagging that came her way was getting old. The Jarl, she thought, had an inflated sense of self-importance. Be it a mere greeting or a full-blown rant, everything coming from him screamed pompousness. More than once she had struggled to keep a straight face as Siddgeir droned on about his Thalmor and Imperial connections. As far as she was concerned, he was no more than a filthy Skeever in their eyes.

Storm shivered in the coldness of her room. The fire had died sometime last night, taking away her only source of heat. She never got used to the cold winters of Skyrim, despite it being her homeland. A thought of simply ignoring the letter played briefly in her mind, which she promptly dismissed – the last thing she needed was the Jarl banging at her door with his entourage. Silly as the scenario may have seemed, Storm could fully imagine Siddgeir surrounded by Falkreath guards, demanding an audience.

Stretching her tense muscles, Storm looked through the window. Usually late to rise, she often missed the beauty of the awakening world. The last remnants of the night gave way to the morn, skies coloured in shades of blue and red. Not a single cloud in sight, Storm sent a scowl towards the burning ball of light that mocked her in the distance. Of course, today had to be the day the weather was playing nice. The universe had something against her, surely.

Lakeview Manor never contained a great amount of items, no clutter or signs of someone residing there were obvious straight away. Storm took great pride in keeping the place pristine, her presence a bare minimum, which was why she stared at a dusty wooden wardrobe in clear contempt. The unassuming piece of furniture held few pieces of clothing, _'for the right_ _occasion,'_ she reasoned with herself. Opening the door, Storm pulled out a stitched linen shirt and a pair of trousers. Siddgeir had commented on her attire several times, pointing out that her armour smelled of death. This time at least, Storm could argue she had put in the effort. Slowly donning the outfit, she strode purposefully towards another wardrobe that appeared to be used more frequently. _Leather_, Storm smiled as she inhaled the familiar scents of several sets of armour that lay neatly piled up. As much as she enjoyed the lightness and flexibility leather armour offered, she held eternal hatred for the bastard responsible for the buckles. After at least half an hour of awkward fumbling and loud cursing, Storm breathed a sigh of relief when all the pieces finally sat where they belonged.

Breakfast, at least consumed at the right time, was a rarity in Storm's life. Bowl porridge sat on the small wooden table, adorned with plentiful herbs and berries. She regarded her creation with pride - the things that came out of her kitchen could send the Gourmet fleeing, but the strange mixtures brought satisfaction to her stomach. Slurping the food, Storm bore her eyes into the letter that she wished could simply stop existing. _Burn_, Storm commanded in her mind, imagining fire coming out of her eyes and setting the wretched thing alight. When nothing happened, she sighed in exasperation and chewed on a snowberry in frustration. The letter continued to lay there, open and forgotten ever since she received it a week ago. She knew the neat script did not belong to Siddgeir - his handwriting was a little above a chicken scratch - but he had certainly played a role in wording it. Taking another spoonful of porridge, Storm scanned its contents. It was easy to guess what the text entailed, after all they all were mostly the same.

"_Storm,_

_As the Jarl of Falkreath, it is my duty to remind you of responsibilities of being a Thane. I know that my previous letters had indeed reached you, which only means you made the choice to ignore my summons. I must press the urgency of the matter I wish to discuss with you, and it is my hopes you attend at your earliest convenience. Failure to heed this letter may result in the revocation of your Thane status._

_I look forward to seeing you._

_I remain,_

_Jarl Siddgeir of Falkreath"_

She popped another snowberry in her mouth and crumpled the letter. Petty threats and downright arrogance were a constant in their limited correspondence and had lost their initial sting a long time ago. These days, letters from the Jarl annoyed her to no end and only the muttered apologies from Nenya prevented her from leaving the Jarl's court on her own accord. _Responsibilities of a Thane_, w_hat about the responsibilities of the Jarl, _Storm scoffed. Throughout her time with Siddgeir, she had not seen the man leave his longhouse once. He relied on her, Nenya, and mercenaries to carry out his will, merely barking orders from his pompous throne. Storm reached for a berry but found the bowl empty to her dismay. It was time to go.

Thick fur cloak clasped atop her shoulders, Storm braced for the cold beyond the comfort of the manor. No sooner she pushed the door open, a shiver travelled down her body as the shock of the morning chill clawed at her skin. There was a reason she chose to get up late, after all. The woman stiffly trudged along the dirt path over to the small stable at the edge of the manor. She allowed a genuine smile to creep on her face at the sight of Wind, her beautiful brown mare. Storm saddled the horse, enjoying the waves of warmth that radiated off the steed's large body. She felt a pang of guilt - she needed to ride more often. Wind neighed as if she had read her thoughts and Storm gently stroked the flowing black mane. She was glad nobody was around to see her struggle to mount the horse. Wind shook her head and snorted.

"Hey, don't judge me!" Storm called out once she managed to sit firmly in the saddle. The horse merely _sighed_, and she felt her plea had exactly the opposite effect. Lightly urging Wind with her heels, she took to the main road leading towards Falkreath. A barely visible vapour rose up from the horse as they carried on and Storm inwardly groaned once again. Impatient Jarls be damned.

* * *

By the time she barged through the door of the longhouse, Storm was a shivering, clattering mess. Her fingers may well had fallen off, and her cheeks stung from the cold that clung to her entire being like a bad smell. Ignoring the concerned stares of Nenya and Siddgeir aimed at her, she made her way straight towards the open fire pit that occupied the middle of the main hall. She'd made comments about the uselessness of such a large fixture in the past, but at that point the warmth made up for all its shortcomings. Holding her frozen hands over the flame, Storm scrutinised the interior. It seemed that every time she came back the place held more clutter than before. A complete opposite to her barren homestead, the longhouse screamed wealth and pompousness.

Once the last traces of the chill retreated from her bones, Storm slowly made her way towards the throne at the end of the room. Banners, animal furs and mounted heads adorned the back wall, with a deer skull hung above the lavish throne. She had seen it all before, but any excuse to avoid looking at the Jarl was a good one, and she could always say she was simply admiring the decor, if pestered. This time, however, the man in question coughed lightly drawing her attention, and Storm looked down to meet a raised eyebrow and impatience clearly written on his face. Despite this, she knew Siddgeir would keep his silence. He took strange delight in being addressed first, and she often wondered if the man was right in the head. Fighting the urge to roll her eyes, Storm spoke up, eager to get this ordeal over and done with.

"I got your letter, my Jarl."

"Ah, finally, I was beginning to wonder if you would ignore this one as well," Siddgeir replied not holding back the sarcasm. "Yes, well, as I said, there's something I need to discuss with you."

"My_ sincere _apologies, how may I help you?" Storm smiled sweetly as she retorted. She knew Siddgeir's game by now, and was not afraid to play along. The slight shock in his eyes was enough to widen her grin. There was no harm in enjoying this, was there?

Siddgeir turned to his steward and waved her off wordlessly. Nenya turned to leave with a small bow of her head and sent a smile towards Storm.

"I have caught on to rumours of some… strange activity in Whiterun," he began and stared intently at Storm, as if searching for a hint of recognition. "One of my men reported seeing workers on the outskirts of the town. I did say that new Jarl is going to be trouble. If they are preparing for an attack, I need to know. Understood?"

"It will be done, my Jarl."

"Good."

The dismissal was clear as day. For once, his call of urgency seemed somewhat warranted, and Storm briefly wondered what might have been enough to draw the Jarl's attention. Her thoughts went over his words. _Workers on the outskirts,_ Storm scrunched her eyebrows in contemplation, keen to distract herself from the incoming blast of cold air. Her curiosity was piqued and she looked forward to visiting the bustling town again. She had heard the rumours of Jarl Balgruuf's mysterious passing and the ascension of a new Jarl in his stead, but the details were lost by the time the news got through to her. As expected, her lungs burned at the intake of air, forcing Storm to jog awkwardly towards the distant heat of her horse. She gave a small wave at the citizens who sent her confused looks. Nord or not, the cool climate of Skyrim did not sit well with Storm, nor did the obvious judgement from her own people. If they enjoyed having blue fingernails at the brink of dawn, so be it, she much preferred the warmth of her bed.

Reins tucked underneath her armpit and hands desperately seeking cover, Storm led Wind down the road, away from the village. Rumours were quick to spread among the populace, and the last thing she wanted was ridicule for her horsemanship. Satisfied they were far enough, Storm clumsily clambered on top of the mare and sat up straight, coaxing the horse to trot along the cobbled path. She was anticipating the pain that would follow the short trip and promised to take Wind for a ride more frequently, if only to keep herself in shape.

* * *

Once she shut and locked the door, Storm sighed in relief and began the arduous process of removing her armour. _Damned buckles_, she whispered under her breath, wishing that she could simply tear the damned thing off and be done with it. Her fingers were much too frozen to comply, and Storm groaned, defeated. _Warmth first, the rest can wait. _With renewed purpose, Storm tossed firewood into the pit and struck the flint near the tinder until it fell a spark, igniting the dry leaves and branches. She poked the flames idly as the fire slowly caught and allowed her thoughts to wander.

Storm felt relieved at the cold shoulder Siddgeir gave her. This was not always the case - the Jarl had a much friendlier attitude towards her the first few times they met. Storm noticed the hungry glint in his eyes; she saw the way they scanned her body from head to toe. She had never thought of herself as much to look at, a sentiment Siddgeir clearly disagreed with. Sly comments he had dropped made Storm cringe, until she refused to set foot in the village for about a month. Ignoring his letters did not sit well with Siddgeir, making them grow in length and frequency. Worse yet, she noticed the writing go from neat and concise to something akin to a jumbled mess. She realised some of the more intense threats came from the Jarl's own hand. Many of those pieces of parchment fuelled the flames of the fires, and Storm snapped out of her trance to bestow the same fate on the newest offender. Burning letters may have been petty, but the satisfaction from watching the edges singe and blacken was worth it in her eyes.

After a lengthy silence, the animosity turned to downright begging - Siddgeir needed her assistance. Storm eventually relented and faced the Jarl, relieved that his behaviour turned distant and cold. She did not mind such treatment, after all it was better than feeling layers of clothing being stripped by his predatory gaze. Still, their meetings left a bitter taste in her mouth, forcing her to turn to sarcasm and wit to hide the discomfort. As the fire picked up, Storm shook her head, willing the negativity to the back of her mind, choosing instead to think of the task ahead.

Whiterun was only a few hours ride away from Lakeview Manor, a journey she was eager to make. She could ride along the shores of Lake Ilinalta, following the White River towards Riverwood and then Whiterun. Storm was aware this way took longer than taking the road to the North, but the temptation to indulge in the sights of Skyrim was simply too great to ignore. She had missed riding freely across the stretching plains of Whiterun hold, brushing the tall grasses with her hand. The city had the right to call itself a jewel of Skyrim and never failed to astound her.

Poking the glowing logs with a stick, Storm bit her lip. What was going in Whiterun to warrant a scouting mission? Jarl Siddgeir could be rather paranoid, she admitted, but usually it never caused enough worry to justify sending someone to investigate. For the first time, Storm felt grateful for her assignment. Even if it turned out to be the overactive imagination of the Jarl, at least she would have a chance to see the city. Balgruuf, despite his somewhat unruly offspring, was a nice man, kind to his servants and caring for his people. His death brought tears to her eyes and guilt sat heavily on her chest. She had last seen him a few years ago. While she had been to Whiterun many times since then, Storm did not feel the need to bother the residents of Dragonsreach. And just like that, he was gone.

Storm sighed deeply and wandered the manor, collecting bits and pieces for the trip. A handful of potions, rations of dried meat all went into her backpack. She tied a fur bedroll to the bottom of the pack and looked at her work with pride. The day was still young and her armour was still on - what better excuse to venture out? Just as she was about to leave, Storm smacked her forehead and cursed loudly. Trust her to forget the one thing that would be the difference between life and death. Like a snowstorm, Storm ravaged through her belongings in search of a sheath. The one she found was slightly tattered and stained. It would do. She turned to her weapon rack and pulled off a plain steel sword, holding it in her hand with slight difficulty. Small stature did her few favours when it came to handling heavy weaponry, and she could already feel the ache that was certain to come if she had to resort to violence. Double-checking everything, Storm extinguished the fire and lingered near its fading heat. She hoped that the chill had retreated somewhat, otherwise the poor guards of Whiterun would have to thaw her out by the time she arrived.


End file.
